


Keep Night From Coming

by coloursflyaway



Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Like really really slow, M/M, Slow Burn, also a lot of the cast doing things, because I like that thought too much, the slowest of all burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 07:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloursflyaway/pseuds/coloursflyaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this lovely prompt on the Hobbit kink meme:<br/>I would love to see something in which two people (I would prefer Richard to be one of them, but I'll take anything) find together slowly, hand-holding, then kisses, dates and the like - but they don't jump into having sex right away. The sex is more of an afterthought, something that happens in its own time and isn't pushed.</p><p>Give me something sweet and slow!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Night From Coming

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/6124.html?thread=19063788#t19063788
> 
> Probably not exactly what the OP wanted (and I am sorry for that!!) but I hope they don't mind that too much.

Richard wakes to find a rose on his doorstep, long-stemmed and the colour of fresh-fallen snow.  
There is no note, no indication of who has left it there, but Richard takes it inside nonetheless, catches himself touching the white petals and feeling how soft they are, fingers dragging along the smooth stem, where someone has cut off the thorns to make sure he won't hurt himself.

 

When he reaches the set, the rhythm of his steps fast and steady, there is still a smile on his lips, a rose-coloured, rose-flavoured, rose-shaped smile, and Richard doesn't care who notices it, instead smiles it at Aidan and Jed and Graham when they greet him.  
He's not used to this, to gifts, and somehow doubts he will ever be, but there is something sweet about this one, something tender and unassuming, which feels more like a question than an answer. Richard thinks that maybe it's the colour of the flower, of his rose, because red would be too much while white is just right.  
The others smile back and Richard brings them a cup of tea for not asking.

 

But in the end, someone does ask, and it's Martin, which is not surprising because even if Richard loves the other dearly, he has never had been one for tact.  
"What's with the smile? Have you gone out and gotten laid?"  
The tone of his voice is almost accusing, but Richard is used to that too, so he doesn't even drop his smile, even when he feels the gaze of everyone around fixed on him. They are curious and Richard can’t blame them, knowing he would be too. "I haven't", he answers and almost leaves it at that, only continues because he knows that Martin would not stop asking otherwise. "Someone left me a flower", he says and doesn't expect the others to understand.

 

It takes three days until the rose starts to wilt, the formerly prim, white petals becoming dull along the edges, the green leaves losing their shine and for a moment or two Richard contemplates letting it dry and keeping it.  
He decides against it, because he is no school girl and doesn't want to feel like one either; still, instead of letting it die on the couch table he has put it, Richard lays it on the steps leading to his trailer before he goes to sleep, hoping that the stranger will see.

 

For two days, the vase stays empty and Richard catches himself looking at it from time to time, only fleeting, but with a certain sense of mournfulness clinging to his mind.

 

Three days later, Richard opens the door at four thirty, still half asleep and so tired he thinks he can hear his own bones creak in protest as he steps outside, his foot missing the tied up stems by only a few centimetres. It takes him a moment or two to recognise, bright petals almost glowing in the dim light of the sunrise, as white as the first rose was, if not whiter. They look like winter, like ice and Richard bends down before he knows it, grasping them tightly; the thorns have been removed just like last time.

There are twelve of them, twelve white roses, and Richard wonders if it means something, anything as he runs a fingertip across the blossoms, the velvety texture like a whisper against his skin. They are all perfect, every single one of them, and without knowing who left them here, Richard is certain that they picked them out by hand, especially for him.  
Faintly, Richard wonders how special that makes him.

 

The smile on his lips might be the same, might be changed, but it stays on his lips the entire morning, up until the point where he is in full costume, weighed  down by layers upon layers and the fate of the Dwarven race upon his shoulders.  
Aidan shoots him a look across the room and walks up to him only a moment later, still in only a hoodie and sweatpants, the long hair of his wig tied back messily. He looks younger than ever like this, and Richard feels affection surge through him, sweet and warm, because even if they are not really related by blood, Aidan and Dean are still his boys.  
“Rose again?”, Aidan asks without as much as a greeting, stuffing his hands into his pockets. It's still cold outside, even if Richard can’t feel it through his clothes, and if to prove his thoughts true, the younger man shivers slightly.

“Am I being that obvious?”, Richard asks and is happy that he hasn’t slipped into Thorin’s skin yet, because like this, when he is just himself, he can smile at Aidan next to him, who looks torn what to answer for a moment.  
“Yeah, you are”, he finally replies, a little sheepishly, returning the smile. “Any idea who sent it?”  
“Them. There were twelve roses today.”  
“Huh? Really?” Aidan’s eyes go wide, and for a moment Richard considers asking him what it is he knows but doesn’t tell, but then decides against it. There has to be a reason why Aidan is holding the information back after all.  
“But no, no idea. There was no note attached to them.” He quickly nods at Peter when the other man calls for him, then, in the few seconds he still has as himself turns to Aidan once more. “But the roses, they’re perfect.”

 

The day passes in a second, all fights and shouting and anger, leaving Richard so tired he thinks of just lying down and falling asleep on set when Peter finally wraps up the last shoot. The exhaustion makes it easier to shed Thorin’s skin, though, so when he sinks down into his seat in the make-up department’s trailer, it’s Richard and not the Dwarven prince staring back at him.  
If it’s a good thing, he is not sure, for without Thorin’s pride, it is even harder to keep his eyes open. So he doesn’t, lets them slip shut and just listens to the sounds of people entering, fetching things, feels fingers working away on his wig, his prosthetics.

At some point Graham enters, heavy footsteps and a deep, rumbling voice he would recognise anywhere at all, talking softly with one of the girls before stopping behind Richard’s seat. Maybe he should open his eyes, should greet, but he doesn’t, his eyelids too heavy and his lips too tired.  
Graham stays still behind him for a few moments, and Richard wonders if he is watching him or someone else until the other starts talking again, his voice still deep, still rumbling, but warmer now, washing over Richard and easing the rest of the tension from his body.  
“Is he asleep?”, the other asks and Richard wants to say yes, wants to say no, so in the end, he stays silent. Someone else answers for him, too quietly to understand, and Graham sits down after another second, but Richard thinks he can still feel his gaze on him when he drifts off to sleep.

 

In the end, it’s Graham who wakes him, with fond eyes and a hand on his shoulder.  
“You should go home and get some rest”, the other says, and Richard thinks that his accent makes his voice sound like the ragged cliffs of Scotland. He nods and smiles slightly, smiles his rose-coloured smile because it seems to fit and slowly gets up, stretching his sore muscles.

There is still a hint of make-up clinging to the other’s tanned skin and Richard reaches out to wipe it off, feeling Graham go still under his touch, the stubble underneath his fingertips. The older man’s skin is as warm as his eyes, as warm as Richard feels when he drops his hand again, a tingle running up his spine.  
“We’ll better get going, then”, Richard offers after a silence which should be uncomfortable, but isn’t, and Graham nods.

They walk back to their trailers in silence.

 

The next day, the roses greet Richard as he steps out of his cramped little bedroom. It’s past seven, because he won’t be needed on set until midday and the sunlight makes the petals gleam like ivory, the leaves shine in a darker shade of green than they did when Richard got back to his trailer the night before. For a moment, he considers taking a picture.

 

He finds Graham and Dean sitting near the set, watching and talking with their heads bent close until there are only a few centimetres of air between their parted lips. It looks impossibly intimate and Richard feels something in his chest change as he walks over to make two cups of tea, one for himself and one for Graham, a cup of coffee for his golden-haired nephew.

They don’t notice him approaching, three cups awkwardly balanced in his hands and threatening to spill over with every unwisely chosen step, and Richard doesn’t do anything to make them, just sets down the drinks on the table in front of them, watches them split apart as if caught in the middle of something forbidden.  
“Oh, good morning”, Dean greets with a smile that Richard returns just a fraction too late, “Didn’t know you had scenes to shoot so early.”

Richard just hums and takes a sip of his too-hot tea, feels the liquid burn its way down his throat. “What are the two of you up to?”, he asks instead of replying to the question Dean has not quite asked, watching the younger male’s blue eyes go round and wide.  
“Oh, nothing special, really. Just about a few scenes, y’know?”

Dean is a better liar than Aidan is, but he’s still not quite good enough, spitting his words out just a little too quickly. He could ask again, but doesn’t, both because he does not want to make Dean uncomfortable and because Graham is taking a sip of his tea, sighing softly as he leans back

For a second, he watches the movement of the other man’s Adam’s apple, the line of his neck and the barely visible lips; then, when he catches Graham’s gaze, smiles  
“I wasn’t quite sure how you usually drink it”, Richard says, almost an explanation, because he has watched him prepare tea, but can’t be sure if he paid enough attention, just like he starts to think that he hasn’t paid enough attention to a lot of things.

Graham smiles back at him, just a soft, hardly-noticeable curl of lips, and says, “It’s perfect.”

 

Aidan asks if he wants to have a drink or two after they have finally been relieved of their Dwarven clothes and Richard agrees without thinking.

It’s always been incredibly easy to get along with Aidan, the other a natural when it comes to coaxing people out of their self-made shells, and so Richard doesn’t hesitate before he knocks on Aidan’s door, his own hair still slightly damp from the shower he has just taken.  
It takes Aidan just as little time to open.

“What’s wrong?”, Richard asks as soon as both of them are seated, him on the couch and Aidan on a chair in front of him, so close that their knees are nearly touching.  
Aidan sighs and takes a gulp of the drink he has poured himself before he answers. “It’s just… I miss her, you know?”  
It takes a moment until Richard understands who he is talking about, but not much longer than that, because if there is one thing Aidan can’t shut up about, it’s his girlfriend. He nods to show that he is listening and takes a sip of his own whiskey.

“I mean we talk on Skype, and we text each other and sometimes… sometimes she sends me those videos, but….” Aidan pauses, his cheeks turning red and Richard doesn’t need any more explanation to understand just what kind of videos they are. “…it’s not the same. I love her and she’s not here with me and that sucks.”  
The tone of Aidan’s voice makes it clear that he has finished, his shoulders slumping and his eyes growing so dull that Richard almost doesn’t recognise him anymore. He must be hurting far more than all of them had known, and the thought that Aidan kept all of this bottled up makes Richard hurt too.

 _I’m sure she misses you too_ , Richard wants to say at first, but thankfully manages to stop himself, realising that of all the things he could say, this might be the worst. So instead he says nothing, just sets his glass aside and puts a hand on Aidan’s knee, hoping he isn’t overstepping any boundaries.  
They don’t touch often, not like Aidan and Dean do, but it feels right now, when the other is so distraught about something Richard cannot help him with, no matter how much he wishes he could.

“You’ll wait for her”, Richard finally says, slowly, as if still trying to find the right words, “And Sarah, she’ll wait for you too. And in the end, that is what matters, isn’t it?”

The other stays silent for a long time, gaze fixed on the amber liquid in his glass, but when he looks up, his eyes are grateful, mellow.  
“You’re right”, he says, and his voice sounds like his eyes look, Richard notices with relief. “I knew you would be.”  
Aidan sits back, the tension Richard has watched building inside him for the past few days slowly leaving his muscles. “You know, I always wondered why you never seemed as homesick as the rest of us. Don’t you miss all the people you left back in England?”

It's a question Richard is not prepared for, making him stop his movements all of a sudden, his fingers half around his glass. Of course he misses them, misses his friends and his family, but there isn’t this one person he would go around the world for, the one he thinks of and feels his heart breaking.  
Right now, his heart just aches, a soft, dull pain which is as sweet as it is bitter, and Richard thinks of his roses and shrugs.

 

They end up getting drunk and with Aidan’s head resting on Richard’s shoulder as he downs the last drops of whiskey in his glass.  
“You know”, the other starts and through the fog clouding his mind, Richard can hear the slur in his words, the sense of finality in his words, as if Aidan has finally found the words he has been looking for for ages.  “You’re the best uncle me ‘n Dean could’ve asked for.”  
Richard’s heart explodes with warmth and affection, his breath catching in his throat as he wraps an arm around the younger man, pulls him closer.

They fall asleep without having moved, and wake up in a heap of tangled limbs.

 

It’s only the next evening that Richard gets to see his roses again.  
They’re beautiful, still are, but one of them is wilting already, head hanging low and a single, fallen petal on the table’s surface below it.  
Richard takes the flower and holds it close for a few moments, watches another snow-white petal drift downwards until it hits the floor, before he takes it outside and puts it down gently.

When he returns inside, there are still eleven roses left, proud and unbent, and Richard suddenly feels as if he was waiting.

 

The next day, the rose in front of his trailer is gone and Richard looks out for stray petals in the grass as he makes his way to the set. He doesn’t find any and tells himself he didn’t expect to anyway.

 

It's two days later and they are marching again, because the sun is bright and the sky clear; perfect weather for scenery shots and Richard is glad for it, because even though he does his best to concentrate, his thought return to the two roses he has left on his steps today, wilted and sad as he walked away.  
He’s not sure if he wants the remaining nine to die quickly, or if he wants to keep them forever like they were when he left his trailer, untouched and beautiful.  
In the end, it does not matter.

 

When they finally finish, having walked through more fields and over more mountain passes than Richard can count, Graham is crammed next to him in the small space the helicopter provides, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, and Richard, who has never been too comfortable with casual touches, finds that he doesn’t mind at all. They aren’t speaking, couldn’t be over the noise of the rotors, but the other’s presence is strangely soothing nonetheless, to the point where Richard catches himself leaning into the touch, against the older man’s shoulder.  
Before he can right himself, Graham is shifting closer, only stopping when they are pressed even more tightly together, and Richard almost thinks he can feel the other’s heat through the hundreds of layers between them.  
He doesn’t bother to correct his tired brain, instead rests his head on Graham’s shoulder and feels the older man relax as well.

 

They all have drinks together that night, as a cast, as a family, and Richard watches as Dean tries to teach Adam how to dance, sometimes making a comment or two, which make the other either laugh or blush, James and Aidan spurring them on from the side lines.  
It’s wonderfully peaceful, even when Adam’s foot gets caught between Dean’s leg, both of them stumbling and falling all over each other in a heap of limbs and laughter.  
Richard joins in, watching them try to untangle their arms and legs, so concentrated that he doesn’t even notice when the chair next to him is pulled out, Graham sitting down with more grace than a man of his size should possess.

“Making sure our boys are okay?”, the other asks and Richard whips around, surprised, because up until now they have only been his boys, never theirs. Never anyone else’s.  
But Graham isn’t even looking at him, eyes fixed on James, who is trying to help Adam up, only to let him fall down again, laughing like a child, and there is the same fondness in his gaze that Richard feels his heart overflowing with and he thinks that maybe, he could share them after all.  
So he waits until he catches Graham’s gaze, nods, and watches the other’s eyes light up.  
“Yeah. They’ll end up hurting themselves otherwise; you know how they are.”  
Graham nods and they both turn back, watch how Adam and Dean latch onto Aidan’s ankles, who is still laughing so hard Richard fears he’ll pass out any second, and pull him down to the floor as well.

 

The next day, Richard has to put four roses out on the steps, their petals still soft to his touch when he runs his fingers over them one last time. It's a goodbye and on a whim, Richard plucks one small white petal from the rose that has grown it and puts it in his pocket.  
He carries it with him the rest of the day.

  
When he comes back after more hours than he can count in his tired mind, the roses are still on his front steps, even more wilted than they had been in the morning.  
Richard bends down and pinches one of the leaves, feels it crumbling between his fingertips; the New Zealand sun has not been good to it.  
For a moment, he considers taking them inside again, putting them in the trash like he would with any other flower, but in the end, he can't bring himself to. Maybe the stranger hasn't had time to pick them up yet, even if this has never happened before.  
So Richard just gets up again, walks into the trailer which he has gotten to know far too well already and closes the door behind him, trying his best not to listen for strange sounds outside.

 

They are gone the next morning and Richard is more relieved than he would have thought possible.

 

Two days and two roses afterwards, with only three more waiting for him back at his trailer, Richard catches Dean watching him with an expression on his pretty face that Richard can't remember ever seeing before. It's neither sad nor happy, contemplative maybe, maybe scared or maybe hopeful. For a split second, Richard wonders if maybe Dean is his secret admirer (for that is what the others call his stranger nowadays) but then pushes the thought far, far away. Dean has his girlfriend, and even if he hadn't, he wouldn't be the one for waiting, for courtship, he'd be the one for drunken kisses and playful smiles.  
Before Peter calls for another take, he asks himself when the stranger became his. 

 

That night, there is a knock on his door, too soft to be Dean’s and too tentative to be Martin’s, making Richard painfully aware of the old sweatpants he has already put on, the too large t-shirt. He opens nonetheless, finds Graham waiting just where he has left the single, dying rose the day before.  
Graham is smiling, so Richard smiles back, steps aside so the older man can walk past him into the trailer.  
“The lads sent me”, he says and his voice sounds as if the words should explain something they don’t. Confusion must be written all over his face, because Graham is quick to clarify, to tell him about beer and movies and Dean hogging all the popcorn, his voice slightly hopeful when he asks Richard if he wants to join their mess.

He almost says yes, right there, without thinking, because Graham looks like he doesn’t expect him to but still wants him there, but he’s got to get up in less than seven hours and can feel the exhaustion creeping up on him already. So Richard shakes his head, tries not to see the disappointment in the other’s eyes.  
“I wish I could, but I need to get up at four tomorrow and…”, he shrugs, lets his voice trail off without having finished the sentence. He wouldn’t know how to, anyway.

For a moment, they both stay silent, then Graham smiles, warmly, because he understands, because he knows how terribly Richard deals with lack of sleep, but although he knows that the older man doesn’t hold it against him, that Aidan and Dean and whoever is with them right now, won’t either, there is no relief in the thought.

“Then you should better go to sleep”, Graham says and Richard can hear that he means it, that he cares, and the thought makes the words he wants to say get stuck in his throat. He watches the other starting to turn around, his eyes stopping when he sees the roses.  
“Oh, are those the flowers which made you so happy a few days ago?”, Graham asks and Richard catches himself watching his face for a sign, any sign. There is none, the other man’s expression the same as before.

“Yes”, he answers, “Yes, they are.”  
Graham nods, lets his eyes linger on the snow-white flowers a little longer. “They’re beautiful.”  
There is an almost melancholic note clinging to his voice, which still makes Richard think of cliffs and the ocean and all things deep and dark, and for a moment, he wishes he could reach out and lay a hand on Graham’s shoulder, maybe his arm and feel someone else’s heat seep into his own skin.

 

Graham leaves, and although he should be sleeping, although he can feel his eyelids getting heavier by the second, Richard follows only a few minutes after he has watched the other walk out.

 

Dean almost tackles him when Richard sets foot in the trailer, turning around to the others with a wide, smug grin on his pretty lips. “Told you he would come, didn’t I?”  
“I couldn’t exactly leave you alone, could I now?”, Richard asks, answers, and Dean nods enthusiastically, pulling him over to the sofa and pushing him down on it, effectively squashing him between Aidan and Martin, who seems all but amused.  
“You owe me the beers I need to buy your damned nephews now”, is what Richard gets instead of a greeting, the other grumbling into his glass and watching Dean fuss around with the DVD player. Aidan beside him hums happily and tries throw a piece of popcorn at Martin, but ends up hitting the back of Jed’s head.  
“Not a chance”, Richard replies and sinks deeper into the cushions.

A few minutes later, with the movie already playing and casting strange shadows over all their faces, Richard catches Graham’s eyes across the room. The other raises an eyebrow in question, and Richard just shrugs, smiles, and watches the other smile back at him.

 

The remaining roses last longer, another few days, but not forever, so when his next, blissfully free day comes, Richard puts another two roses on his front steps before he leaves to find Ian and Andy and Adam already waiting in a car he has never seen before, ready to go.

They spend half of the day in the nearest town, sight-seeing and shopping and getting lost, and when Richard returns, far later than he intended to, the roses are gone like they should be.  
He still feels a pang of sadness.

 

He holds onto the last rose as long as he can, for a reason he cannot name, something between anxiety and hope, because he doesn’t want this to end, and yet can’t help but be excited about what might still be to come.

 

In the end, after another two days, there is nothing to be done about it anymore, the rose losing its petals, those still clinging to the stem with their last bit of strength having darkened along the edges, the leaves slowly losing their colour. So Richard takes it outside in the evening, lays it down as gingerly as he can, afraid that it will lose the rest of its petals too, if he doesn’t pay enough attention.  
He lingers for a few more moments, his eyes not leaving the delicate, fragile flower on the ground, before he walks back inside for only a second, only long enough to grab a slip of paper, a pen.

With the last rose, Richard leaves a note, weighed down by a small stone he finds, so his stranger will find it.

 _Thank you_ , it says.

 

The rose is gone the next morning and Richard feels empty.

 

They have three days off afterwards, which is as wonderful as it is seldom, and with Dean going to visit his girlfriend and Aidan tagging along, half of the cast off to some beach, Richard ends up in someone else’s car again, on the front seat next to Graham behind the wheel.  
A road trip, Graham has promised when he asked Richard to join, so a road trip he gets, complete with randomly chosen motels and food out of plastic wrappers, landscapes which seem to stretch out endlessly and maps they both can’t seem to read right. There is laughter and silence and stories being swapped back and fro, of auditions and childhoods and coming here and a thousand more things, and sometimes, when he thinks Graham isn’t watching, Richard allows his eyes to linger a little bit longer on the other man than they should.

He doesn’t think about the roses until they get back again.

 

There is a knock on his door only a few moments after the sun has set and Richard knows who it is before he has even gotten up.

Graham meets his gaze as soon as Richard opens, his stance bordering on formal but his eyes soft, warm, hopeful. There is a bouquet of roses in his hand, all of them white as snow, and for a few moments, Richard says nothing, just looks.  
“It was you”, he finally starts, voice soft as falling rain, then corrects himself, “I knew it was you.”  
Because he did, somehow, in some way, because that is why he never went looking for the stranger, _his_ stranger, because Graham would always find him.

The other doesn’t say a word, only watches Richard like he has watched him ever since they met, both so far away from home, and Richard wonders if by now, Graham doesn’t know him better than he does himself.

“Yes”, he finally gives his answer to the question Graham has been asking for far more than a week now, feels the word slipping past his lips and making them curl upwards as soon as it has reached the air.

 

Graham takes him on a date on the next day they have off, a proper one with taking an hour to pick out what he’ll wear and a thousand different scenarios of how everything could go wrong in his head, and Richard feels impossibly young again; even younger when Graham knocks on his door, being perfectly punctual, and Richard’s heart skips a beat.

The other looks handsome in his suit and even more handsome with the smile stretching his lips, the crinkles around the corners of his eyes.  
“Hi”, Richard greets weakly, unsure how to act now that everything is so familiar and yet so different between them. It must have been the right thing nonetheless, because Graham’s smile widens, his eyes shining brightly, and when he finally steps out of his trailer, Richard wonders if he makes the other feel younger than ever too.

“Hi”, Graham finally answers when Richard has locked the door, walked up to his side, and the smile on Richard’s lips turns into a fully-fledged grin, because now, with only so little space between them, he can see that the older man is just as nervous about this as Richard is himself.

When they start walking, Richard reaches out and takes Graham’s hand, their fingers intertwining as if they had been doing it since the beginning of time.

 

Graham takes them to a small restaurant, and when he pulls over, Richard wonders when exactly he has started watching out for the line of the other’s jaw in everything he sees.

 

There is a certain kind of tension which has settled between them, thick and heavy, but Richard doesn’t mind it at all, even likes it, because it keeps reminding him that this is not a dinner between friends, or at least not _just friends_ , and because it keeps him from overlooking things. Like how Graham glances at him over the rim of his glass after he takes a sip of his wine, or how his eyes shine a bit brighter when Richard uses his name. Like how Richard makes sure to use it more often after he realises, adoring the way it makes the older man look.

He’d like to know what Graham notices, what is new for him, Richard thinks and it takes a few moments until he realises that there is nothing to stop him from asking; so he does. The other stops in mid-motion, glass raised half to his lips and surprise written all over his face and for the first time, Richard wonders if maybe, for Graham nothing has changed at all.  
It takes almost an eternity until he answers; setting his glass aside and looking at Richard in a way which makes him want to shiver, not sure what kind of answer he expects, or wants to hear.

“Everything”, he finally says, and Richard wonders what it would be like to kiss him now, if he would be able to taste the surprise on his tongue, his lips. “Everything has changed. You said yes.”

And there are no words left in Richard’s mind, not for an answer and not for anything else, so instead he reaches out, takes Graham’s hand and lets the way their fingers seem to know exactly how to fit together speak for him.

 

 

He kisses Graham in front of the restaurant.  
It’s not planned, but it feels right nonetheless, one of Richard’s hands cupping Graham’s face and the other’s body frozen with surprise for a split second before he relaxes, brings his hands to rest on Richard’s hips, pulling him closer. There is a small smile on Graham’s lips and he kisses it away, kisses the sounds coming from him away as well, the thoughts in his own head, the worries.

He kisses him again when they are standing on the front steps of his trailer, softly at first and passionately a second before they part, Richard’s hands on the older man’s chest, one of Graham’s arms slung across his waist in a half-embrace. They are both breathing heavily when they break apart, lips red and eyes unfocussed, and for a moment, Richard considers inviting Graham inside, imagines exploring hands and hot mouths, the slide of skin against skin.  
In the end, he doesn’t, instead presses another, chaste kiss on the other’s lips, whispers _goodnight_ while they are still so close that Richard can feel their breaths mingling.  
They’ll have time for everything else later.

 

Richard wakes to find a rose on his doorstep, long-stemmed and the colour of the wine they had the night before.  
He feels how his lips curl up into another, yet completely different rose-coloured, rose-flavoured, rose-shaped smile, his heart overflowing with what could grow into love, if he’ll give it enough time.  
Before he leaves his warm trailer to step into the cool night air, he puts the rose into a vase and places it on the table just like he did with all the others, throwing a last glance at it.  
It’s perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you want to say hi, send me a prompt, or tell me something nice, you can find me on Tumblr here:  
> [X](http://www.coloursflyaway.tumblr.com)


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